


Walking Down The Corridor Of Paint

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: AU: Deep Claws [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfam Feels, Bruce is dead, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is a good Bro, Damian gets emotional, Female Dick Grayson, Female Talon Dick Grayson, Portraits, Well - Freeform, but mainly, cough cough, everyone does, he tries, or as emotional as Talia and Bruce Wayne's son can get, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 16:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: (2022.)Each painting told a story. And this story deserved to be told.AKA: Damian thinks about the family's current problem (or, one of many) and comes up with part of a solution.





	Walking Down The Corridor Of Paint

 

 

The day is a cold one, with Rachel's back playing up and leaving her in bed with Todd keeping her company, Drake and Thomas playing with their coding with Fox down in the Cave, Brown and Cain out shopping with Gordon and the Row's out exploring the Wayne's neighboring forested lands. His family's business had left Damian alone.

Not that he was complaining. Alas, Gordon oft looked at him and claimed something along the lines of 'there's a bit of the Boss-man's brooding in you yet, Squirt.'

And Damian liked the silence. The quiet of nought but a settling mansion, the steady hum of electricity as it circled through its ancient, cracking walls. He enjoyed the peace it brought. Enjoyed the isolation.

If only for a short time. Robin could not do with going insane whilst there was a new Batman holding the mantle.

(Todd needed him even more now, with Nightwing down.)

So, Damian did what he knew to do best when he was at peace. In the calm before the storm — as Brown loved to say. He watched, he analysed and he observed.

Today, he was observing.

It was not often that the family walked down the hallway to the right of the grand staircase that made its start in the middle of the foyer. Hence, the dust that lined the gold portraits. Honestly, Damian did not know why they did not stop to admire the works of art on the walls, watched over silently by a soft anciently gold embroidered Winchester.

The hallway was lined, on both sides, by portraits. All painted by hand, the frames hand-built.

At the start, before the busts of long gone ancestors began (where Brown had found William Oscar Wayne's and moved it to just beside the clockdoor), lining podiums and leading to a magnificent ballroom, were the portraits of the men whom first built the manor.

Solomon and Joshua Wayne stood to, respectively, the sides of their father, Alan Wayne. A gold carved plaque claimed the year _1915._ The three men, the two younger looking much the same with their prideful grins and black, curled hair, stood saturated in power and wealth. It was obvious from how they stood purposefully in front of a long gone window, one that gave a magnificent view over their lands, over the drive before the tarmac came for their cars.

The painting mirroring it, on the other wall, adjacent, had Solomon and Joshua standing alone, their backs to a red wall of curtains, a small child sitting in a chair that looked eerily like the one that guarded these paintings. The boy, at first glance, Damian would've mistaken for himself, or a younger version of his father, but the year 1930 painted in swirling cursive far uglier than Rachel's had him realising it must be Thomas Wayne, his grandfather.

The boy looked sensible yet happy. His hair was combed back, Solomon Wayne's hand resting on the royal back of his chair as Joshua Wayne watched on from a high-tipped chin.

The next portrait, 1940, showed his grandfather once more, alone except for the butler gently touching his shoulder. Damian did not doubt by this point his two great-grandfathers were dead. Grandfather looked sad but there was a determined glint, shown even through the weathered paint.

Damian walked down the hallway a bit, skipping the next couple of his grandfather and butler, Jarvis Pennyworth — Alfred's father. He paused at one that showed Thomas smiling, a young lady in a smooth flowing dress clutching his arm. A diamond ring glittered on her ring finger. This, 1950, showed a painting probably painted days after a happy marriage. The woman was his grandmother, Martha Wayne (formerly Kane).

1960 showed a bundle of blue and a tuft of black hair in grandmother's arms. Both she and grandfather smiling down at his father, newly born.

There was a kind, happy family standing in place of 1970's portrait. Whilst Damian had mentally noted the growing happiness in the paint, this painting made it spectacularly clear, with grandfather's grin beaming to rival his father's. Grandmother sat in the chair, a commodity in all the paintings, smiling as grandfather's arm curled around her shoulders.

Then there were no paintings for twenty years. Damian assumed it had to do with his grandparent's death and his father's time away from home, training.

In 1990 it started up again, _199_ _5_ to be precise. A man, his father, stood tall and proud in a black suit, Pennyworth to his left, a young, scared looking, slim girl sitting tightly on the yellow chair. It was Rachel, he realised, squinting at shadowed blue eyes. It was her first year in the manor, and reasonably, she'd been tense and uneasy.

1996's had her looking happier, if by only the fact she no longer looked like a caged animal. She sat in the chair, a small near unrecognisable red batarang in her hand. Bruce stood to her right, stern and face blank save for the soft smile, and the glint in his eyes as he looked down at Rachel. There was a bat perched on his shoulder, looking quite at home despite Pennyworth's glare. Even then there was a penny sitting as his bowtie's butt.

The inclusion of their identities made Damian chuckle.

There was not a portrait laced in gold for 1997.

They looked rougher in 98. Rachel's eyes were tighter, sharper and she seemed hunched in as a boy with reddish black hair stood awkwardly beside her. Bruce stood directly behind them both, one hand on the chair back, the other on the boy's —obviously Todd— shoulder. Pennyworth smiled at them all, from their right as usual. His smile was strained.

Nintey-nine's portrait had Todd standing by Bruce's side. The chair was gone. Alfred in her place on the right. They all looked tense, Damian was willing to bet (Brown was becoming a bad influence on him) that if the painting were in motion, his family that seemed so small, would be shifting awkwardly. Alfred would be the only one not, always reserved and proper as he was. As he used to be.

The year of the millenium brings a dull painting of Bruce standing lone in the centre, Alfred's hand on his shoulder with the butler himself looking away. It looks remarkably like a guardian angel, looking over their ward despite how their instincts scream, pushing them along despite how they know their ward will not make it. Bruce Wayne looks awfully close to breaking, his face crumpled, hands snarled into fists.

Damian swallows and thanks Allah he was not yet in father's care at the time.

The man looks distraught.

2001 brings a new image, although comparably darker. Rachel is back, standing for the first time ever. Her hair casts her in shadows, lapping at her shoulders and breasts like waves from a corrupt sea. Her eyes are the only thing visible from her dark; they glow a firece, angry yellow. Like years before, she wears a dress but this one is longer, more dangerous in its choppy cut at her heels. It is a bloody red shade.

Bruce stands. He looks determined, like his father once had, down the line of the past. The only difference is the bruise that archs along his cheekbone, the split lip. It tells whispers of a late morning's fight in a black suit of kevlar. It screams how he's falling into reckless abandon. His suit is a complete black, not even a white shirt. His tie is a pale blue colour; almost teal.

There are no paintings for a long while, shown by a slightly larger gap between this and the next. It's as if the jump is so large only a wider space makes up for it.

It certainly is a change. Damian nearly chokes as he stares up at the intelligent stare of Drake. Brown stands beside him, shy in actions but bold in the purple of her humble dress, their arms twined. Rachel stands behind them, towering in the might of her eyes. She and Bruce appear to have calmed, their eyes less sinister, their apparel more formal. Rachel wears a low black cardigan with her longer, floor licking dress. Her lips are pursed but she smiles in the crease of her eyes. Bruce taunts suit pants and a white shirt. There's a comm clip on the pocket of his shirt, a small bat replacing one of the unhidden buttons.

They stand close together, almost protectively. Damian nearly compares it to Martha and Thomas with Bruce before taking in how they all stand too far apart to be completely safe.

The gold plaque has a scribbled _2006_ adorning it.

2010 has an even larger family. Gordon stands with them now, as well as Todd. Drake's hair is pushed back, trimmed at the sides and his eyes proclaim sleepless nights but increased knowledge. Brown stands a step away from him, lush dark purple skirt mingling with Gordon's black one. Gordon and Brown are sharing a knowing glance between them, the formers firery hair tangled up in an intricate plait. Rachel and Todd stand behind them all, no space between them. Todd's tux is wrinkless, a red tie marking his presence; Rachel's dress is a long thing, sweeping around the floor seen in the painting, as if protecting her family. It's black as night. Bruce stands to Rachel's left, away from Jason, in a normal suit with a black tie. Alfred stands merrily beside Todd, handkerchief tucked in his front pocket, emblazoned by a golden A.

2012 has Cain joining them, mischievous looking as she buries herself into Brown's side. Rachel and Todd look even more enamoured in each other than they had previous, Rachel's head tilted towards her then-boyfriend, a soft smile playing on her lips. The family, as a whole, looks like the striking image one would see in a paper, additioned by an article detailing just how perfect they were.

It leaves his stomach bristling with jealousy, so he turns away, to the next one.

It is one of 2015 and Damian himself is in it. He and Bruce are at the edge, with Alfred beside Bruce as his father holds his hand on his shoulder, a besieging smirk on his face. Damian is embarrassed at first glance, shamed at how he is so young —only eight— yet looks so... _angry._ He stands tense, the girls —Cain, Brown and Gordon— all standing at least a few steps away from him. Drake is the closest to him and even then he is side-eyeing him for the slightest indication of sudden death by angry midget.

(Indeed, he admits he _was_ quite short back then.)

All the men wear suits, each wearing a tie of their own affinity — a bright green for him, black for Bruce, red and black stripped for Drake, a dark red for Todd. The females all wear dresses for this year, no doubt going to a gala of a sort later on. (Damian doesn't exactly remember having this done so he's not sure.)

Brown is smiling in a gorgeous black dress that's twinning with Cain's, they are identical from everything from the creases in the skirt-bit, to the long black ribbon wrapped around their waists and tied in large bows. Gordon dawns a long dress that goes from the red of fire to a slash of orange to yellow to white by the time it has reached her breasts. It suits her. Suits her with how she's curled her hair, allowing it to flow over half her face. She is not wearing glasses so Damian assumes she is wearing her contacts.

And finally, Rachel is wearing a short but sweet blue dress with soft ribbons wrapped along her legs from her heels. Her hair is short but long enough to accent her sharp cheekbones and glinting blue eyes. She looks childish, despite how Damian assumes her to be around thirty (late-twenties, maybe) at this point of time. It goes well with Todd's serious black tux pants, red dress shirt, white tie and black blazer. Rachel is smiling softly (it has to be her first _real_ smile in any of these paintings and Damian spends too long staring at it), and Todd is frowning, strict and cold, mirroring Bruce. Although likely not for the same reasons. If Damian is correct, it was around this time Todd started pulling strings to have the Wayne's regarded as gang lords, to try and avoid the up-and-coming wars in correlation with territory.

This next portrait, Damiam remembers. He remembers how it bit at him, having to stand still with such fools. (Fools he now regards as much more than that. They're family now. Nothing less.)

It is a painting of 2018.

Days after they'd returned from Japan, months before Barbatos. The time skip seemed like such a jump, if one went from the young look of Rachel in '15 to the graying stands of her several years later. (She had spent seven years in Japan, taking the brunt of the time jump.) Nevertheless, Todd appeared to have aged too, with stress, so they merely looked as if they'd aged a tad excessively. (Timetravel jumps for periods of time were usually not counted into their age count so Rachel just had to live with the 'looks older than I am' deal. She claimed she liked it though, being different from her Talon days of the exact opposite.)

As per the dress code, they wore their colour, this time with Rachel enjoying a dark red too. The newcomer, Thomas, appeared unsure in where he stood beside Drake, to the right of Brown. He wore a black suit with highlighted dark navy stitching — it matched his technologically advanced Darkwing suit well, from everything from the circuits to the gleam. Aside from the lack of an all-knowing visor, of course.

Otherwise, everyone seemed used to the tedious posing that hand-painted portraits brought. But then, where they really portraits if it was a familial thing?

But assured, they were _family portraits._ So surely that counted?

Damian wasn't so sure, resolving to visit the library later, where the unseen ghost of Solomon Wayne lurked, watching over them.

He moved on, striding to the right to find a large painting; possibly the largest yet. It had them all in it, everyone: Rachel, Todd, Bruce, him, Drake, Thomas, Brown, Cain, Gordon, Alfred (in what would be his last) and both of the Rows with Titus, Alfred the cat and Penny the bird by their feet, and upon their fellow animal's (and human) shoulder, respectively.

His family looked older. Rachel smiled with serene responsibility now, Todd's arm around her as the other was around Gordon. Brown and Cain were cluttered together, as usual, with Harper joining their possé. Bruce stood behind them all, rivalling Todd's —and Damian's own more recent— height, a tired, old Alfred beside him, loyal to the death. Drake, Thomas and Cullen were standing beside the girls, further towards the frame's left. Cullen's hand lingering on the Great Dane's back, Penny on the dog's shoulder. Alfred the cat was hidden half in Gordon's hair, paw sneaking out in a time-printed moment before the little devil would jump onto Thomas' shoulder and slash a three inch long cut down Drake's cheek. (Certainly a screaming match to remember fondly.) Damian stood by Rachel's side, taller than her, pristine in his green tied suit, hair razor-cut at the sides, gelled back softly up top.

This one was from 2020, a complete fifteen months, sixteen days and ninety-four minutes before they would get the call from the League. The fated call with a teary-eyed Superman on the other end, saying their father was dead.

Damian's fingers curled into a fist as he stared at the blank wallpapered wall where another portrait should stand but didn't. There was a surprising amount of the framed paintings, eventually, if more were added, they'd need to find a new wall to line them upon.

But with Bruce, Batman, _dead_ , no paintings were going to be painted just yet. Everyone was too sore, still grieving over a death that should not have happened. Grieving their decisions in letting the man go, go to _help_ when he had no business nor need in doing so.

The League had been doing fine, tracking down Darkseid's monsters and killing them. If they hadn't of called then—

Then his father, _their_ father, would still be alive.

Bruce Wayne, the Batman, would not be dead.

Jason Todd, the first Robin, Red Hood, would not have had to stand up from his comort zone, take up the role of House Head, take up the role of a leader and mentor as well as the mantle of the Bat. (Or well, he would soon, there were still adjustments being made to the suit as they'd only really realised Gotham truly _needed_ a Batman a few weeks ago.)

Maybe, Rachel Wayne, formerly Nightwing, wouldn't be so _formerly_ and a bit more _currently._ Maybe her back wouldn't be broken, the vertebrae needing metal to heal. Maybe she wouldn't be stuck in bed right now, after a gruelling day of therapy, and possibly, she could've stood beside him, commenting on the paintings she was in, telling him about them with lengthened words as was of recent. (Because with the going of her back had came the coming of words to tell, to say, speeches to give. A city to save from the law's side.) Her nightmares would be lessened and she would not awaken each night with a scream or sob on her lips from seeing a trapeze or that footage. That _damned footage_ the League had shown them, of father being _shot._

Timothy Drake, ex-Robin, Red Robin, wouldn't be depressed. He wouldn't be working himself into the ground, pushing away Kon who just wanted to help, brushing off his brothers worry and his sisters concern. He wouldn't be working on four to five cases at once, sleeping barely any hours and drowning crates of caffeine every minute.

Duke Thomas, Darkwing, might still have someone to take tips from, to watch and try and develop a poker face with his mentor, the Batman, as they sparred on the mats. Mayne he wouldn't be so silent, so scared to speak up and _talk._

Cassandra Cain, ex-Batgirl, Black Bat, would still have a father to turn to in the middle of the night after a nightmare. She'd have a friend and an allie that knew how to dampen his emotions and give her time to think, helped her when she couldn't handle the emotions everyone else emitted constantly, even Damian.

Stephanie Brown, ex-Robin, ex-Batgirl, Spoiler. She might still have had a man to taunt, to tease, that she could openly call her father because he'd taken her in, trained her, taught her the way to survive, all without a gun pointed to her head, fully loaded.

Barbara Gordon, ex-Batgirl, part-Oracle, part-Batwoman, wouldn't cry in the dead of night at the loss of another father, even if he was just a figure. Her presence would be a happy one, not a sad, miserable, demanding one as she worked through the stages of denial and guilt.

Harper Row, Duo, would have a mentor that could actually stand and praised her when she fought. Harper'd not be under the stiff tutelage of Todd, who floundered and was unsure of how to lead a young woman like her, a woman who knew nothing aside from the tricks of 'punch them in the stomach,' 'kick them in the balls' and 'poke them in the eyes'.

Cullen Row, Gotham, would have an easier time at school, without the other kids laughing at him on how his new father had 'deserted' him. Cullen's arms would be bruise free, his ribs would not ache from the trashcan dumpings and he would take pride in how he could stalk the rooftops of Gotham as Gotham without a sound, able to rival Batman — the master himself.

And Damian—

Damian would not be here alone. Damian would have been granted his wish —scratch that, his wish _would not have been needed to be made_ — of being allowed to hear the newspaper rustle at the breakfast table as his father flicked through it, he sitting by his side early in the morning before they all organised themselves by age for dinner. Damian's Robin would still have a Batman, his Batman would not be in a coffin, his funeral taken over and organised forcefully by the team he called his allies.

Damian would not be hurting. His chest would go up and down easily, his fingers would not ache from their continual fist-making. Damian would not go to bed fearing the dynasty of the Waynes, fearing of what would become of the Bat Clan, of the duo of Batman and Robin, the duo that had always been but was now not.

Damian worried. He worried for Rachel, for Timothy, for Stephanie and the Rows. He fretted for Cassandra and Jason, and over Duke and Barbara. Damian wouldn't have been forced to grow up that bit more to deal with the gaping hole left in their workings, to make up for the missing cog in the machine.

He realised he wasn't breathing right and calmed down, sucking in deeper breaths to feign off hyperventilation.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Damian looked up at the empty space on the wall, the blank that yearned to be drawn upon, and hummed. They should do another portrait. It might help. Help them move on.

Yes.

They would make another.

Damian spun on his heel and set off for the grand staircase, making his way to the attic in which his eldest siblings slept in.

Each painting told a story. And this story deserved to be told.

 


End file.
